The Search For Pandora's Box

by Jim Jennings

Laurence was wearing a black jacket, a grey shirt, darker trousers and brown brogues, all courtesy of Giorgio Carraciolo, and was rushing through great crowds of pedestrians in the direction of the Paris Museum of Ancient History. Giorgio’s reasoning had been sound; Wesley was, after all, invited to the lunch as one of Randall’s guests, and the chances were more than likely that he would be there this afternoon, perhaps to find someone who could help him, perhaps out of some loyalty to Randall, or just maybe out of some curiosity to actually see the box for once and for all. As he turned a corner and saw the museum in the distance, Laurence felt a sudden jitter of nerves run through his body. He settled himself and proceeded with the aid of street signs on to the museum.

  The pace of his steps quickened and before long he had started running. It suddenly struck him that once again he was rushing through traffic in extreme heat to get to a museum and, though the location was different, the result was the same, for when he reached the steps of the dome shaped building with its front glass façade, he was a quarter of an hour late. With trepidation in his heart and the adrenaline of the journey rushing through his body, he bustled his way through a great throng of photographers and journalists to the top of the steps. He was expecting an easy entrance, but as he observed the two bald and sturdy looking doormen, he was reminded of his days as a fresh-faced student queuing to get into nightclubs. The two men stopped Laurence by reaching out their hands, creasing their ill-fitting tuxedoes as they did so, and asked him for identification and his invitation. Laurence checked his pockets and eventually found the ticket that Giorgio had given him. He stood there waiting for what felt like an eternity as the two men looked at his invitation, all the while knowing that he had a gun inside his jacket and a licence to find Wesley. As he shot glances from left to right at each doorman like an eagle-eyed spectator at Wimbledon, he realised that he was about to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of society. Suddenly he was more concerned about his hair than finding Wesley. The guards finally returned his invitation and allowed him to enter.

  What was revealed to him was a vast space that featured two staircases that bent in a curve on either side of the room that offered an opportune viewing area, the front of which was covered in roses and ivy and resembled a garden canopy, over the whole floor below. Laurence decided that would be a good place to start to look for Wesley. Over the loud voices he could make out the sound of a jazz band playing some classic song that he couldn’t remember the words to. A sharply dressed waiter offered him a glass of champagne, which he took, and then proceeded to make his way about the room. This proved tremendously difficult, for the stuffy room was swarming with ant-like hordes of glammed up sycophants all complimenting the staff and proprietors in the hope of obtaining another complimentary glass of champagne. Laurence never much cared for the stuff; it always made him very ill. After twisting and turning his way past dancing couples and evading security guards, he found himself stood by a long buffet table that was the host to many strange dishes such as sausages stuffed with egg, roast chicken kebabs smothered with tomato puree and pate baked potatoes, which he assumed was just an average dinner for socialites. He decided to turn his rather large nose aside from this fantastical banquet and, seeing a path to the right hand staircase open up before him as a mass of people parted ways like the Red Sea, paced towards it, finishing his glass of champagne as he did so.

  The upstairs of the room was similarly decorated in a most glamorous way. The back wall was just one long mirror and every five feet or so there was a small table with a pyramid of assorted treats and desserts with which the guests of the museum were encouraged to gorge themselves on. Here too Laurence found himself pivoting round oblivious couples, tiptoeing about stressed out waiters and ducking under the gesticulating arms of an extremely happy Frenchman, and as he went through this human obstacle course, he thought about Ruby. He thought her beautiful and charming, kind and clever, but though he was certain that any man would be lucky to be hers, there was something about her that Laurence didn’t like. Maybe it was because she was currently protected by a potential madman and a small army inside a mansion that was more like a fortress than a home. No, it was something more than that. He barely knew her. He knew what she looked like and what she did, but he didn’t know who she really was. He had been captivated by her beauty, but he realised that he wasn’t really in love with her and she almost certainly wouldn’t have been in love with him. It was of little consequence; what mattered was finding Wesley and bringing him back to Giorgio.

  But just as he was about to start his search, he locked eyes on a most baffling and horrendous vision that left him immoveable, transfixed and motionless such were its uniquely ugly features. In the centre of room, beneath the second of three chandeliers that hung down from the painted ceiling, was a tremendous ice sculpture that transfixed Laurence where he stood. He stared at the statue with utter wonderment; what imagination, what mind, what tortured soul, could create such a grotesque image? And what fool decided to put such an image of ugliness in a room of beauty. Noticing how Laurence was so dumbstruck by the sculpture, Michele Vivant, who was the owner of the museum, spoke thusly,

  ‘It is magnificent, is it not?’ The voice resounded with pride.

  ‘It’s certainly eye catching. I just cannot comprehend…’

  Vivant cut him off, placing a hand on his back. ‘I know, I know. But ours is not to question why, my friend. Ours is to stand back, to admire, and to be moved.’

  ‘In this case, be moved to tears.’ Laurence said before a brief chuckle.

  ‘Yes, in the sight of great beauty one cannot help but shed tears like a spring of delight.’ Vivant agreed.

  ‘Not only in the sight of great beauty, but in the sight of great ugliness too.’ Said Laurence; still staring at the ice statue, still aghast at its grotesqueness.

  ‘Indeed. But luckily we do not need to consider ugliness when looking at this particular statue.’

  ‘You’re right; the word ugly does not do justice to this crime against art, against my eyes, against ice!’ Laurence beamed. Vivant, removing his hand from Laurence’s back and putting it on his own hip, looked rather bemused and, taking a step back, asked Laurence,

  ‘A crime against art, sir? What do you mean?’ His voice had become shrill with shock.

  ‘Well…it’s hideous.’ Laurence said honestly. Michele Vivant did not appreciate his candour and, flabbergasted, asked Laurence to elaborate.

  ‘Look, I’m no Vincent Da Vinci, but even I can tell that this is absolute trash. Whoever made this must have possessed a rather vivid and deranged imagination. Look at the face, such drained and large features. Is it a zombie? A human gargoyle! Perhaps it’s supposed to demonstrate what we would all look like if we didn’t eat, have any sunshine or exercise.’

  Vivant was becoming increasing agitated, ‘You do realise that it is supposed to be an exact likeness of the fabulous owner of this museum, the great and much respected Michele Vivant?’

  Laurence did not take his eyes off the statue for a split second, ‘Oh yes, I see it now! My boss at the London Museum of Natural and Ancient History didn’t much care for him. Between you and me I’ve heard the man is a complete buffoon. Apparently, ‘he’s ugly as the day is long, as bald as a freshly plucked turkey and as short as one of the seven dwarves.’ A pretentious fop! I could go on but I fear if I stare at this statue for much longer I might be turned to stone! It’s so appalling; look at those arms, as scrawny as a chicken! My name’s Laurence Swift by the way, you are…’ He turned to his companion, yet no one was there. He turned again, looked down and saw a very short man who was red with anger, with eyes about to bulge from their sockets and several veins throbbing with real vigour on his shaking forehead. Laurence felt he had seen the face before and looked back at the statue.

  ‘My name is Michele Vivant, an ugly, bald gargoyle!! How dare you, sir!’ Laurence gulped, paused and looked down at him.

  ‘Well, I was just playing
devil’s advocate!’ He tried to reason but Vivant stamped down on the ground like a petulant child whose mother had just shouted at them in the supermarket.

  ‘You uncultured cretin! I have never been so insulted in my life!’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, this sculpture is quite insulting, too! Blame the sculptor.’

  ‘My wife, Francesca, sculpted this!’

  ‘You have a wife?’ Laurence was so perplexed. Who would marry this hideous ode to horror? Vivant had a very slight frame a short reach but a perfect position for attack and he poked Laurence in the stomach, which winded him. A crowd had started to assemble around them.

  ‘You could have the courtesy to stand up and talk to me face to face, rather than face to stomach you ludicrous popinjay!’ Laurence furiously commanded. Vivant was quick at the repartee,

  ‘I am standing!’ He exploded in a high-pitched exclamation. Realising the awkwardness of the situation and the silence of the once bustling room, Vivant dusted down his suit and gestured for the guests to return to the party, offering them all another glass of complimentary champagne, which brought coos of delight from the women and shouts of celebration from the men. Then he looked up at Laurence and said, ‘I will never forget your name, Laurence Swift, now get out of my museum. Guards!!!’ I wish I could forget your face, Laurence thought to himself, and as Vivant scurried away to repair his damaged ego, a great tank of a man grabbed Laurence by the collar and dragged him back down the stairs and to the door. At the back of the huddled circle that surrounded the disruption, Wesley Gilliand smiled to himself before seamlessly merging himself into a group of onlookers.